


A Wing of	Dragons

by Jaetion



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Bisexual Female Character, Drabble, F/F, F/M, Femslash, Gen, M/M, Prompt Fic, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-10
Updated: 2011-10-28
Packaged: 2017-10-24 11:42:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/263071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaetion/pseuds/Jaetion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of random drabbles and fills from the Dragon Age Random Prompt Creator by Cherith.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stand Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Avernus/Ser Thrask - Stand Up

The Knight-Commander had overstepped her bounds again, sending Thrask to Ferelden to investigate a maleficar. She had said the mage was too close to the Free Marches, too dangerous to be ignored, too powerful for the weaker Fereldan templars to handle. She had done it to get rid of him, he suspected. Thrask had accepted for his own reasons, surviving the sail across the Waking Sea and the march through the mountains by prayer and stubbornness.

Getting past the traders who'd made camp at the decaying castle had been difficult, his armor and joints creaking in the freezing wind. He'd found the mage, as tainted at Meredith had promised, but too smart, too human to be a true abomination. Avernus talked, Avernus reasoned, Thrask was tired, Thrask was cold. He drew his sword and cleansed the magic miasma from the room, but Avernus in Warden colors instead of a robe continued wielding his quill, ignoring the staff collecting dust in the shadows and Thrask's arm aching under the weight of his shield.

That night Avernus lit candles and tossed Thrask a bottle that was more vinegar than wine. The mage didn't sleep but lay beside the templar with a wheezing laugh. In the morning, Thrask woke up and stood up alone, then walked past the surprised traders and back down to where a ship waited to take him home.


	2. No One Else to Turn to

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Cailan Theirin/Finn - no one else to turn to

"I don't know," Finn said as he pulled another robe from the cabinet. "I think this is a bad idea. And by bad, I mean terrible."

"Stop worrying. No, this one doesn't fit either." Cailan yanked the robe down his arms and tossed it into the rapidly growing pile on Finn's bed. "Maker's breath, you mages are almost pathetically puny. I don't see why the templars are so afraid of you."

Finn glared over his shoulder, but Cailan's smile softened the insult. Finn sniffed disdainfully; the man had no right to make unkind remarks when he needed Finn's help to impersonate a mage to play a trick on the visiting, unforgiving Mother Perpetua. He was also stripped down to his smalls, which should have made him feel at least a smidgen ridiculous.

Not that he looked ridiculous. In fact, he looked rather marvelous.

Mistaking Finn's silence for a sulk, Cailan clamped his massive hand on Finn's shoulder (possibly breaking a bone or to there; maybe he really _was_ puny). "Come on, old boy, I didn't mean to offend. You're the only one I could turn to. Imagine if I'd asked your enchanter Wynne? Or that one who looks like he's swallowed a lemon... Torrin."

"Try this one," Finn mumbled as he flung another robe over Cailan's thick arm. The hand on his shoulder squeezed gently and Finn could feel the warmth of it through the thick velvet of his own robe.


	3. Save the One Last Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Bhelen Aeducan/Jowan - Save the one last dance

There is no other place in Ferelden for him to hide, so Jowan slides through the gates of Orzammar into the depths of the dwarven city to plead with the king for protection from the unyielding templar force chasing his blood. When he gets an audience, Bhelen is more amused than awed, but with a wave of his hand he grants Jowan a room in the palace and a job that surely even he can handle: entertainment. But there is also the idea that the king's enemies will be impressed by a maleficar included in court, and Jowan, gaunt and pale and taller than everyone else, is certainly strange enough to inspire concern among the nobles.

At some party, some event to celebrate Bhelen killing someone or other for something or other, Jowan stands by the throne and tries to look menacing. Bhelen grins up at him, then clamps his hand around Jowan's wrist to yank him down to eye level. "Wojech Ivo swears that you cast some sort of spell on him to lose the proving."

Jowan tries to find the warrior in the sea of dwarven faces, but the beards blend together. Bhelen grunts and his grip loosens but doesn't drop. "Spread fear, if it's easier than working magic. But I want to see what you're really capable of."

"Whenever you wish, Highness."

Bhelen stands - not that it makes any difference, it's not like he's any taller on his feet - and reaches for a cup to raise for a toast. The crowd silences immediately and turns toward him, waiting for his blessing like congregation at the chantry. Afterward when the music starts once more, Bhelen has Jowan brought to him again. "Stay until the end," he orders. "At the last dance I'll find you again and you'll tell me what you've learned. Don't mingle, but watch who you can. Maybe you can see more from your perspective."

Jowan murmurs that he will, of course he will, but Bhelen's attention is already elsewhere. He adds absently as Jowan is waved away, "You'll be spending the night with me, of course. So don't grow to attached to anyone."

Later, as dawn breaks outside, Jowan comes to Bhelen with his cache of secrets and spells and they walk in companionable silence to the royal chambers. He is surprised when Bhelen has the guards strip him - for the king's safety, they explain as their swords rip through his robes. He is surprised, but not much. Conversation progresses as normal, as if all Bhelen's discussions are done in the nude, until the guards are dismissed and Bhelen commands, not unkindly, for Jowan come to him. Even on his knees, Jowan is too tall, so Bhelen orders him to lie prostrate on the bed. By the time the guards return to announce that court will soon be in session, Jowan has solidified his place at Bhelen's side.


	4. Guilty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Branka/Oghren - guilty

She stayed their wedding night - of course she did, what kinda bride would go runnin' off when the hall was still filled with guests? - but it didn't take long for her to stop smilin' at him and start spendin' all her hours in her lab. _Laboratory_ like she was some sort of topsider mage or somethin', with her inventions to keep her company. Course it wasn't just her tools keepin' her occupied. Heh, though maybe she and Hespith used a few of those tools...

Everyone said she's done with him, but that didn't mean that Oghren was done with _her_. When she stopped comin' to bed at all, not even when it was his birthday or their blighted anniversary, he found himself a bottle instead of another wife and drank and drank and drank until it got easier to convince himself that all was all right in their house and that she'd come crawlin' back, beggin' and moanin' for him again.

They weren't dreams, since dwarves didn't mess with the Fade like surfacers, but sometimes he'd get in one of these dazes from all the beer and the echoes in their empty home that his sword made scraping against the stone sounded like her voice sayin' his name.

\---

The marriage wasn't a farce, not exactly, not from the beginning. Oghren's charm was like a whetstone, rough and grinding, but it made her sharper, and she left their "battles" with grins and flushes, and sometimes beard-burns on her chest that itched under her armor.

The invention - Ancestor's take it, it _was_ perfect and _was_ worthy of a Paragon's title - filled a void that once had been filled by Oghren. He was always _there_ getting in the way, upsetting her notes and knocking over experiments. When she lay in bed her head whirred with new ideas, new trials to start, and her hands twitched like they were moving for her tools, even when they ached for rest. She snapped and him, shoved him out of the way before her burnt down her bench, the whole blighted house. He whined when she didn't want to stop for a blighted dinner, threatened when she wouldn't leave for some blighted Proving. It got easier to just ignore him, and Branka got good enough that his presence didn't interrupt her studies, not even when he started to plead.

When she read about the Anvil, there was a click in her like a lever being pulled into place. Hespith stayed with her in the Shaperate, holding up candles for her to read the ancient tomes, bringing ink for her to finish her notes, rubbing her shoulders when Branka cracked them hard enough to dislocate them. And she listened. And she learned. And, unlike Oghren, Hespith _believed_.

It was no question, then, what Branka chose to take with her into the Deep Roads and what Branka left behind.


	5. Parlor Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just finished Gamlen's Greatest Treasure. I'd love to see Charade return in the next game; the Amells kick a ridiculous amount of ass. In my headcanon, Charade hires out as a mercenary and ends up in the Invisible Sisters. Where else would she learn to fight like that?

Veld kicked the blanket off in his sleep and Charade grumbled as she pulled it back up from the floor, wrapping it around her shoulders before pressing against Veld's back. She could feel a headache thorbbing behind her eyes - too much wine with dinner - and buried herself deeper in the nest of pillows and sheets, blocking out the sunlight that was making its way gamely through the room's shadows.

When she got up she stumbled through a pile of their clothes, wadded up in clumps where they're thrown them off the night before. She kicked one of Veld's boots off her skirt and dusted it off before yanking it over her legs.

"Oi, where you off to?"

Veld propped himself on one elbow. His eyes were as red as his hair, which was standing up like he'd been struck by lightning, and Charade wondered again why she bothered with him at all. Mornings were for regretting the night before, she thought as she adjusted the skirt around her hips. Maker she needed a drink.

"Well?"

"Winger wants us all back. Someone's been taking out the gang; we need to re-group." She found her shirt under her boot and pulled it free, flapping it clean. Cleaner, at least, she thought as her nose crinkled at the smell. Dust motes floated in air for a moment, and Charade thought of the snow she'd used to play in as a child, when they'd lived in Orlais. But then she shook her head and slipped into her shirt. Didn't do any good to reminisce.

"Come back to bed. Winger won't miss you." Veld stretched his long arms above his head and flexed his sleek muscles, a display she suspected was more for his benefit than hers. Still... Charade grabbed her boots as she walked back to the bed, then sat on the edge. Veld's hands were warm on her back and she let him slide them up her spine, move to her breasts. When he started kneading like he was making bread though, Charade bent down, dislodging his hands, and stuffed her feet into her boots.

He snorted and rolled further away, dragging the blankets with him. Hay poked out from the seems of the mattress and it scratched under Charade's knees as she worked on the boots laces and buckles. When she was done she stood over Veld, tracing the shape of his lean body under the covers, resting on the bulge between his legs. And then she leaned over him, jamming her hand down on his chest as she grabbed her bow and quiver from the other side of the bed. He yelped a curse that she ignored.

"Business before pleasure," she said with a shrug as she walked to the door. Not that being in the Invisible Sisters was much of a job. But not that being in bed with Veld was all that great. One day she'd do better. She owed her mother that much.


End file.
